Living for the Weekend Cheese: Bath Blue

In November of last year, Bath Blue cheese was named champion at the World Cheese Awards (held within the BBC Good Food Show at Olympia, London).

How is such a mighty honour bestowed? Wheels within wheels.

To achieve its crown, Bath Blue had to beat over 2,700 other international contenders. The process is one of elimination: first a longlist is arrived at (these are usually referred to as Gold-winning cheeses (silver, bronze and “no award” designations are also applied)). The worthy Gold are then whittled down to an illustrious Super Gold shortlist (at the BBC event there were 50 of these blinged-out top notch cheeses).

Up to this point, 250 judges & cheese-perts have been sniffing, tasting and calling the shots. They wear white lab coats appropriate for the clinical ambiance dominating the great open rooms where these things take place, more airport hall than hearty deli. However, once the Super Golds have been lined up for inspection, cometh the supreme jury comprised (according to The Telegraph and in the case of the WCA) of “12 experts from the four corners of the globe”.

The magnificent 12 then, without X-Factor style showboating (could be interesting though), choose the king of kings. Beneath the champ, but above all the rest, are other major winners with attractive titles such as Best French Cheese (Matured Basque Heart, 2014); World’s Best Unpasteurised Cheese (Bayley Hazen Blue, 2014); and Exceptional Contribution to Cheese (Roland Barthelemy, 2014).

As for Bath Blue, made by The Bath Soft Cheese Co, well it’s a lovely organic blue. An eater. Very creamy, with a mild blue flavour running through its green veins (and with less metallic tang than Shropshire Blue of which it reminded me). A worthy winner.

Next week: nowt.

Week after next: Cheese.

Living for the Weekend Cheese: Oxford Isis

Ah, Isis. How could Oxford Cheese Co., naming this honey mead-washed triumph in 2003, have predicted that its lyrical associations of punts sliding over the placid waters of The Isis would become overshadowed by something so diametrically opposed?

Stemming from this has been a surprising trend of everything from TV shows to Ann Summers feeling it necessary to publish disclaimers that the Isis they’re referencing is not “that Isis”. Other companies have felt the backlash to such a degree that they’ve rebranded, jettisoning the increasingly toxic tag entirely.

I contacted Oxford Cheese Co, and they reported that, while “Sales have not gone down visibly, we have had some retailers and restaurants stop taking Isis cheese. Also we have had a couple of weird phone calls threatening us with violence unless we changed the name of our cheese.”

Woah. Don’t freak out, Isis terrorist group haters! You’re letting them win. Isis was an ancient Egyptian river goddess; The Isis is a river in Oxford; Isis is a thong, baby doll, and plunge bra by Ann Summers; most importantly it’s also a fantastic, award-winning cheese.

But it stinks. Oh yes, a triple bagger for the fridge and no mistake (probably a DEFCON 3 to Époisses’ or Stinking Bishop’s DEFCON 1). Washed in five-year old Oxfordshire Honey Mead, this creamy, pasteurised cow’s milk disc has a glittering golden rind extremely sticky to the touch, like a paper bag of sweets left too long in the car. It’s aged for six to eight weeks, and when it arrived at my door from those kind people at The Cheese Market it had a quite a springy semi-soft texture.

As is often the case with washed rind cheese, the smell was by no way an indicator of the strength of flavour, which was fairly mild, tangy and meaty (those medieval monks what came up with this technique didn’t get their pious hands on a whole lot of filet mignon in those days, so these kinds of cheeses were intended to be a stand-in). Crusty bread helped to rein in the odour a touch, although the juxtaposition of relatively meek interior with virulent stench is all part of the magic and joy of a successful washed rind cheese.

We (imaginatively) drizzled over some orange blossom honey, and as the local Co-op aisle yoofs hadn’t even heard of mead, paired it with some tasty honey ale.

A friend tasting with me said that a mouthful of honey-drizzled Oxford Isis transported him back to a simpler time of robbing the rich to give to the poor. I’m not sure how helpful this comment is generally, but considered in the context of him as a lover of tradition, perhaps it can be seen as aligning Oxford Isis with some intrinsic idea of Englishness. Exactly like punting along The Isis.

So show your support: pick up an Oxford Isis, get your hair cut at Isis hair salon in Blackpool, buy an Ann Summers thong, or just start referring to the terrorist group by its toilet detergent Isil name instead. Or even just as IS. Or will we have to stop using the word is then?

Je suis Oxford Isis.

Next week: non-political cheese

Double or Nothing

Happy Cheese Lovers Day, apparently. Good excuse to run out and pick up some cheese. But what is this, like a birthday for cheese fiends? If so, where’s my present? If someone is going to start up a national day of this kind – be it enthusiast, marketeer, or government – then they need to follow through. Those purporting to be Cheese Lovers should head to the local Office of Cheese once a year with receipts indicating regular cheese purchases. Perhaps also give a blood sample, demonstrating a Lover level of cholesterol (as opposed to just a flimflam “fancier”). Then, on Happy Cheese Lovers Day, those card-carrying cheese lovers receive the gift of a letterbox-suitable cheese… a St. Jude, perhaps, or go ahead and push through a cylinder of Stilton. Then I’ll really be a Happy Cheese Lover, and it will be my Day.

Appleby’s Double Gloucester. Happy to say that they don’t sell it nibbled and gouged.

Let’s talk Double Gloucester. Some facts: differences between Single and Double Gloucester are the lower fat content in the former, and Double is aged longer (about 4 – 6 months compared to Single’s two); both historically made in the West Country county of Gloucestershire  from the milk of even-tempered (and endangered) Old Gloucester cattle; Double quickly develops a tough rind making it good for transport and for rolling down Coopers Hill; annatto gives it the orange hue.

Both types of Gloucester are extremely mild, cheddary-style cheeses, and because of this I’ve always preferred Double. It’s extra creaminess (it’s made from whole milk and the cream of two milkings whereas Single is produced with partially skimmed milk) elevates it above the galaxy of mild cheddars available. The Appleby’s made me happy, and Steven Jenkins recommends these dudes. It goes down easy with a glass of perry.

A special mention should be made of cheesemaker Charles Martell – he of Stinking Bishop fame – who in the 70s revived the traditional Double Gloucester after industry had debased the recipe for the demands of heartless mass production. Martell also stood up for the dwindling Old Gloucesters through the resurrection of the Gloucester Cattle Society. The Society has this charming webpage, advertising cattle as if they were lonely souls in the personals, with the recommendation that they make: “ideal house cows”.

Next week: Bath Blue…

 

Living for the Mid-Week Cheese: Appleby’s (part deux)

Back on the esteemed Appleby’s this week (click here for the all important Appleby’s part one).

Appleby’s is famous for its normal Cheshire, but sneak a look behind that cheese’s broad shoulders and you’ll discover, first with your nose, Appleby’s Smoked Cheshire.

The rind is a deep meaty orange, almost resembling crackling. Otherwise its resemblance to its pure blood sibling is identical.

It has a powerful smoky whiff. Be sure to double bag it swiftly, and do not allow it to share a fridge compartment with milk in an open container unless you like smoked milk. The cheese itself is smoked for three to seven days using oak chips and a smokehouse – the olden traditional way – rather than going the newfangled liquid smoke route.

Now, the producers describe the flavour as “delicate”. I have a number of smoked cheeses in my time, and this rates as one of the more powerful. Certainly one of the more delicious as well – you can really tell the difference between a smokehouse-smoked cheese and one that’s been flavoured with the liquid smoke (although the latter does usually go hand in hand with a generally worse overall product; of course, this isn’t always the case as best exemplified by the Nantwich Intl. award-winning Smokey Redwood Cheddar which is flavoured by liquid smoke of cheesemaker David William’s own devising. Smokey Redwood Cheddar, from the adventurous Cheshire Cheese Co,  has won a gold medal for five straight years at Nantwich, plus multiple golds at the World Cheese Awards – very much the Michael Phelps of the cheese world. We’ll have to have a taste comparison here at some stage… but for now: stop pulling focus, digression cheese).

We quickly became addicted to this cheese. Smoked cheese is always very more-ish, but this one, with its extra depth and Cheshirey texture, certainly trumped our engagement with previous smoked cheddars we have enjoyed. Interestingly, when grated onto baked beans, the flavour did become more delicate. A changeling.

Next: Double or nothing

Photo Diary: Royal Bath & West Show

I had some cheese to review this week, but I unfortunately ate it all before I had a chance to photograph it. Therefore, here is some filler a photo diary from the recent Royal Bath & West Show – an agricultural show that, for the first time this year, incorporated the British Cheese Awards. I think they need to work on allowing the visiting public to try the competition cheese, rather than having them in a sort of plastic wrapped museum format, but I concede that I know nothing of the logistics that go into such an undertaking (1,000 + cheeses sent in for judging). That said, feels like there are tricks being missed. But it is only the first.

Mix of Somerset gentlefolk at Bath & West

British Cider Championships held at Bath & West. Apparently, Bob Chaplin, of Doulting near Shepton Mallet, took the Fruiterers’ Trophy for the Supreme Champion British Cider, for his Broadpool Cider dry. “This is the pinnacle”, Bob said. “To have won the very first British Cider Championships is the high point of my cider-making career. There can’t be any greater honour.”

Very nice, bit of a rip off

Cider judging. I know a bloke what can knock you up one of those purple badges for a fiver.  Go to car park C, ask for Geoff.

Mighty cider selection available at the bar. “I’ll have an ‘alf of the Barn Owl, please, stout yeoman of the bar.”

Cider makers demonstrating the traditional ways

The die hard fan

“I’m looking for something very specific: a photograph frame for a portrait of a horse with a lime green border. I’ve looked everywhere, I’m at my wits end – can you help?”

Prize pigs

Prize cow

Look at the size of this!

“Mm, good hooves…”

Clearly no fan of Keira Knightley

Another delicious, I mean, handsome looking beast

Buffing the undercarriage…

The Conquering Cheddar: Quickes Vintage Cheddar from Devon. Congrats to Mary Quicke!

Reserve Champ: Humming Bark by Carrigbyrne Cheese… intriguing little fellow

The King of Kings: Rosary Garlic & Herb by Rosary Goats Cheese. Release the hounds.

 

Living for the Weekend Cheese: Dorstone

Dorstone is a village and a cheese. Apparently the village is very nice, set in the picturesque Golden Valley of Herefordshire and home to an annual sloe gin competition where the winner is crowned ‘Grand Master of the Sloes’.

But let’s be honest here: none of us are ever going to go to the village of Dorstone except by happy accident, so let’s focus on the far more accessible Dorstone cheese that emigrates regularly from the artisan cheesemaking facilities of Neal’s Yard Creamery, Dorstone Hill, to the UK’s luckiest urban centres. Confusingly, Neal’s Yard Creamery in Dorstone is named for cheese purveyor Neal’s Yard Dairy in London. Creamery used to be a part of Dairy until it upped sticks to the south east in ’96 to independently produce cheeses of the goat and of the cow.

No identity crises surround Dorstone the cheese, however, which is a fun little wrinkly grey tower of goat – no more, no less. The handsome blue grey rind is the result of a covering of ash, and the commingling of various white, blue and green moulds that develop during the two week aging process and which we try hard not to think about while we’re enjoying our cheese. The pristine white interior draws a striking contrast to the exterior, and has a lemony, zesty freshness when shoved in the mouth. The texture is fluffy, apparently the result of pre-draining the curd.

Dorstone was the tower of power on my Christmas cheeseboard last year. Even if you’re not a huge goat’s cheese fan, you’ll get on alright with friend Dorstone. Nice with a drop of honey. I suppose you could call it the ‘Grand Master of the Easygoing Goats’, although that could sound quite dubious out of context, so probably best to just call it Dorstone.

Next week: more cheese

The Caboc Conundrum

Last week I promised to unveil the outright loser of the Burns Night Cheese fest. As the quick-eyed blog reader would have discerned from the title of this post, it was Caboc.

What is Caboc? Well, therein lies the conundrum. According to Jenny Linford’s Great British Cheeses: “The richness of this cheese, produced by Highland Fine Cheeses in Tain, Scotland, is explained by the fact that it is made entirely from double cream, with a lactic starter used instead of rennet. The thickened cream is shaped into small logs and coated in golden brown oatmeal. The soft yellow paste inside has a buttery creaminess, which contrasts with the texture and nutty flavour of the oatmeal coating.”

Perhaps I set myself up here. I love a good heart attack cheese (ah, Vignotte, what times we’ve had…) and I thought: If anyone knows how to do heart attack food properly, it’s those Scots. Well, not in this instance. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Apparently, Ruaridh Stone, owner of Highland Fine Cheese Co which makes Cadoc, (and whose mother, Susannah, revived the Caboc recipes from centuries of slumber) has stated (thanks fromagehomage):  “I think it’s a taste which should stay in the 1970s, but it has had a revival” and “For some it tastes like rancid butter rolled in oatmeal, some might say nutty, but with that much fat there’s little, if any flavour.”

I’d suggest: none at all?

Clearly head of PR at Highland Fine Cheese Co., Ruaridh continues: “Selling the cheese is a nightmare (Dignitas?) as it really is a Scottish specific line, the French say it is butter, the English just don’t get it and so it’s mainly eaten by people with triple heart bypasses and purple noses. At 70% butter fat it’s a kind of heart grenade.”

Much as it pains me to say it, the French are correct: It’s just like eating slices of butter. Half of the log remained after Burns Night. I kept chipping away at it this week waiting to get it, to taste it, to understand why it’s called cheese.  I’ve also noticed that it hasn’t exhibited any of the signs of aging that you expect with a cheese: no hardening, shifts in colour, flavour intensity. It just remains inert, untouchable. It’s Scotland’s oldest cheese, dating from the 15th Century, and I’ll bet there are some ancient logs of it half finished and unchanged lurking in the heather, waiting to be gobbled up by your dog before it has a massive coronary on the way home.

Next week: I think I’ll use this as a jumping off point to look at other heart attack cheeses. And it’ll give me an excuse to try some Finn. 

GB Cheese Regions: Teifi Valley, Wales

“The British Isles are a dairy wonderland of common climate, temperature, elevation and pasture” – Steve Jenkins, cheesemonger

As a cheese region, the Teifi Valley is both new and old. New in the sense that it’s never really been a bona fide “region” until quite recently, after various local authorities embarked on a marketing push for the area and compiled a brochure knitting together five local cheesemakers – Carmarthenshire Cheese Company; Caws Cenarth; Hafod Welsh Organic Cheddar; Sancler Organic; and Teifi Farmhouse Cheese – into the Teifi Valley Cheese Producers.

The brochure reached for the stars, breathily describing how “with its lush pasture and stunning scenery it is no wonder that the Teifi Valley in the heart of south-west Wales has been likened to the ‘Loire Valley’ of Welsh cheesemaking’.

Highfalutin aspirations aside, the Teifi Valley is lush, green and very pleasant to visit (especially when it’s not raining, which it does a fair bit – hence the attractive lushery and greenery). Great bit of coast as well, with hidden beaches and tiny fishing villages backing into rugged cliffs. It’s also dairy country, and prior to the marketing push it was and still remains to be home to the majority of artisan cheesemakers in Wales.

The varieties made in this region vary a lot, but as it’s Wales you tend to find Caerphilly well represented. Besides that, you’ll encounter the whole cheesy gamut from fresh to bloomy rind camembert-style to blue. It’s a creative valley; perhaps all the rain forces the cheesemakers to spend extra time indoors tinkering with their cheeses. Whatever the reason, it’s well worth a tasting trip.

As an added plus, Teifi Farmhouse Cheese has also installed its own distillery. Their farmhouse botanical gin is a sweet little number.

Teifi Valley recommendations:

Golden Cenarth – Washed rind, oozy, good for melting in the oven and dipping in with crusty bread (or, whisper it: crispy bacon)

Hafod Cheddar – Organic cheddar made from a century old recipe; the nutty creaminess keeps unfolding in the long finish.

Gorwydd Caerphilly – Exemplary traditional caerphilly, soft and lemony with an earthy rind. (Trethowans Dairy which makes Gorwydd isn’t technically in the Teifi Valley, but it’s just one hill over from Hafod (which is also strictly speaking in the Aeron and not the Teifi Valley), so let’s all just geographically unclench for a minute and focus on the cheese).

Seaweed Teifi – After trying this, Pavarotti apparently shipped a ton (perhaps literally) over to Italy. Haven’t tried it, but did try some Teifi Mature that was, in the effervescent vernacular of the West Country, gert lush.

Build your own taste trail here: http://tastetrailwales.co.uk/en

Mission Statement: A Cheese Epiphany

Last Autumn, I went to a Neal’s Yard Dairy tasting at Grey’s Cheese shop in Pangbourne. Admittedly, it was a pretty wanky scene: being talked through a selection of cheeses by a floppy-haired cheese aficionado. But the eclectic selection of attendees (average age 40) and the good, honest, cheese-loving women of Grey’s certainly put paid to any sense of pretension (admittedly, the Crane boys could have probably slipped in unremarked, but I digress).

At the time I was a cheese consumer in much the same way as the majority in the western world: enjoying it as a non-essential essential, mostly supermarket Cheddar, Parmesan, and any name Brie, often not really tasting it grated onto my pasta dish or puddled on a pizza. My wife and I attended this event more out of a lack of other options than any deeper reason; we had just returned from three years in California and were marooned in the countryside outside of Reading while she worked a temporary contract at a local school. I was lonely. And I found Grey’s.

Perhaps loneliness makes us most vulnerable to epiphany. For epiphany arrived that night on the tip of the tongue for, lo, these cheeses were unpasteurised. It was a whole other deal: long finishes, complexity, notes. All those wanky terms usually floated at a vineyard were completely transferable to the cheese on offer.

As we ate, the “cheesepert” spurted forth about the trials and tribulations of artisan cheese in the UK. It’s had a rough ride, to be recounted in a later post, but the summary – as these cheeses attested to – was that UK artisan cheese is in some kind of Golden Age flowering; a resurrection thirty years plus in the making.

Through this blog, I hope to slow down on my cheese consumption (certainly no more weed-fuelled-whole-brie-wedge-a-night-poundings of my mid-twenties), take more careful note, and commit those notes to this blog. I’ll focus on domestic artisan cheeses, as it still feels like there’s a lack of awareness (I base this on a feeling in my waters) regarding home grown farmhouse (interchangeable term for ‘artisan’) cheese.

Cholesterol’s for wusses – nobody lives forever.

Thanks for reading.

Cheers, Chris

PS The cheeses at the tasting were Ogleshield, Keen’s Cheddar, Kirkham’s Lancashire, and St. Jude.